Framed in Cornwall - Janie Bolitho Page 0,37

she had never met.

Throughout the short drive she tried to plan what she would say but her mind kept returning to the phone call. It was silly not to have mentioned it to Jack. If there was another one she would do so.

The house was exactly as Dorothy had portrayed it on an occasion when she had tried to describe her daughter-in-law. ‘Typical Gwen,’ she had said. ‘Neatness means more to ’er than anything.’ It was one in a terrace which stepped down towards the estuary. The lower halves of the buildings were brick, the tops pebble-dashed and painted white. Each had a small shed to the side of the front door with its entrance at right angles to the house. There were spotless net curtains at the windows. In front was a small patch of grass. Tiny wooden fences divided the gardens.

Rose rang the bell. She knew from Dorothy that Gwen did not go out to work so it was likely that both Pengellys would be in. ‘Mrs Pengelly?’ Rose smiled warmly then realised it was a mistake. The woman in front of her was slender and beautiful in a waif-like way but her features showed signs of misery. She had not expected this reaction, not after what Dorothy had led her to believe. But Rose did not know about the events which had shaken Gwen to the core. Sizing her up quickly, Rose took in the expensive haircut, the straight blue skirt, soft blouse and high-heeled shoes. It seemed an incongruous outfit for a housewife and mother on a weekday, one who was recently bereaved. ‘I’m Rose Trevelyan. Dorothy may have mentioned me.’

‘Yes. Yes, I believe she did. You paint or something, don’t you? Won’t you come in?’

Rose nodded. This was a far cry from Doreen Clarke’s extravagant praise of the way in which she earned her living. Doreen had obliquely let it be known that she did not like Gwen Pengelly but Rose would not let her opinion cloud her own judgement.

‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘If you’re not too busy. I only came to say how sorry I was. Dorothy was a good friend to me.’

Gwen seemed surprised to hear this. ‘I see.’ She plugged in a percolator. ‘Please sit down. Excuse me, I must put these in.’ Gwen picked up a pile of children’s clothes and bundled them into the washing-machine.

It was such an ordinary, everyday domestic task yet Rose would have been less surprised if she had said she was about to leave for a modelling engagement. In her faded denim skirt, a pink and yellow checked shirt, frayed rope espadrilles and her soft hair already escaping from the wooden clasp at the nape of her neck, Rose felt a complete mess beside her. One day she really would do something about her wardrobe. The sound of running water filled the sunlit room as the machine filled then began its cycle.

Gwen stood up and looked at her hands as if she was unsure what to do with them. ‘We were going to see her on Sunday. Dorothy.’

‘I’m sorry. It must have been a dreadful shock for you.’

‘It was.’

‘Do you know when the funeral will be held?’

‘It’ll be at Truro Crematorium but we haven’t got a date yet. We can’t do anything until after the inquest on Friday. If you leave me your phone number I’ll let you know.’

‘Thank you.’ Rose rummaged in her shoulder bag for one of her business cards.

Gwen took it and read it slowly. ‘Look, I apologise. I didn’t mean to sound offhand. It hasn’t been easy lately.’ She paused. It would have been pleasant to confide in another woman but she did not know Rose Trevelyan. ‘At least Dorothy had a reasonably long life. We must be grateful for that. Oh, Peter, I thought you’d gone out.’

Neither of them had heard the door leading to the hall open. There had been no other sounds in the house and she, too, had imagined Peter was out. It was him she had come to see but she had the feeling that Gwen had been about to confide in her. She watched them both: there was tension between them.

Standing in the doorway, looking unsure of himself, Peter’s hand was still on the handle. ‘I heard the bell. I came down to see if it was the police again. It’s Mrs Trevelyan, isn’t it?’ Rose nodded. ‘I thought I remembered you.’ Dressed far more casually than his wife, in jeans and a sweatshirt, Peter had